Page images
PDF
EPUB

The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky Grow fainter, and fainter:-The wonders all die!

The visions have gone! they have vanish'd away, Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day. The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight, And fountains were gushing like wine in its light, And seraphs were wheeling around in their flightA moment: and all was enveloped in night! "Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart: They come but to blaze, and they blaze to depart― Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide The chilling of sorrow, or burning of prideThey come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell, Like bright birds over ocean-but never to dwell.

MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT.

OBSERVED ye the cloud on that mountain's dim
So heavily hanging?-as if it had been [green
The tent of the Thunderer-the chariot of one
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?
"Tis descending to earth! and some horsemen are now,
In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow.
"I is a helmeted band-from the hills they descend,
Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend.
No scimitars swing as they gallop along;
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong;
No trumpet is fill'd, and no bugle is blown;
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown;
No shoutings are heard, and no cheerings are given;
No waving of red flowing plumage to heaven;

No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reins;
No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes;
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing,
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing;
But they speed, like coursers whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe, from the loosen'd sod;
Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf,
Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf, [ing,
Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weep
And young, gallant hearts are in sepulchres sleeping;
Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon,
While the night's muffled horn plays a low windytune,
Are seen to come down from the height of the skies,
By the warrior that on the red battle-field lies,
And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field,
And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheeld,
When the dying half-raise themselves up in a trance,
And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance,
And wonder to see the dread battle renew'd, [stood.
On the turf where themselves and their comrades had
Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they

ride,

O'er the thunder-reft mount-on its ruggedest side;
From the precipice top, they circle and leap,
Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep;
Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies,
Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes,
With gestures more threatening and fierce till he dies:
And away they have gone, with a motionless speed,
Like demons abroad on some terrible deed.
The last one has gone: they have all disappear'd;
Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard;
For still, though they pass'd like no steeds of the earth,
The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth;

Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last; And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen pass'd,

So swiftly, so mutely, so darkly they went,
Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent, [tent.
That ye felt their approach, and might guess their in-
Your hero's stern bosom will oftentimes quake,
Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake,
Before the cool marching that comes in the night,
Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light;
Subduing the heart with a nameless affright,
When that would swell strongly, and this would ap
If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear, [pear,
Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day,
When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her
prey.

For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven,
No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife,
No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given,

No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife,
Is half so terrific to full swelling hearts,
With echoless armour, with motionless plume,
As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs,
With ensigns all furl'd, in the trappings of gloom,
Parading, like those who came up from the tomb,
In silence and darkness-determined and slow,
And dreadfully calm, as the murderer's brew,
When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow,
Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow!
When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit
O, say what ye will! the dull sound that awakes

aches

With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far,
Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war.
It is the cold summons that comes from the ground,
When a sepulchre answers your light youthful bound,
And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound,
Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear,
And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear!—
When the banners of death in their splendors appear,
The low, sullen moans, that so fecbly awake,
At midnight, when one is alone, on some lake,
Compared to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls
From the bosom of space to the uttermost poles!—
Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud,
To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud!—
The talking of those who go by in a cloud,
"Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave,
The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave,
To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red,,
To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way,
And farewells are discharged o'er a young soldier's bed,
When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray!

AN INDIAN APOLLO.

Not like the airy god of moulded light, Just stepping from his chariot on the sight; Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud, And arrows singing as they pierce the air; With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair; As if he paused upon his bounding way, And loosen'd his fierce arrows-all in play; But like that angry god, in blazing light

Bursting from space, and standing in his might—
Reveal'd in his omnipotent array,
Apollo of the skies, and deity of day,
In god-like wrath piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go!
-Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle and with sunny wings,
When heavenly music murmurs from his strings-
A buoyant vision-an imbodied dream
Of dainty Poesy-and boyishly supreme!
-Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire,
Gazing o'er heaven until her thoughts take fire,
Panting and breathless; in her heart's wild trance,
Bright, shapeless forms, the godlings of Romance!
-Not that Apollo-not resembling him
Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb-
But man-all man! the monarch of the wild!
-Not the faint spirit that corrupting smiled
On soft, lascivious Greece, but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase, with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping.
Thus springing to the skies, a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight,
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen but by the Indian's sight-
His robe and hair upon the wind, at length-
A creature of the hills, all grace and strength,
All muscle and all flame-his eager eye
Fix'd on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky!
-Not that Apollo !—not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun-
But this, the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent, cliff, and wood-
Nurslings of cloud and storm, the desert's fiery brood.

MORNING AFTER A BATTLE.

WHO thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, In gone-by hours, before the battle even? The very horses move with halting pace; No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy; No more their housings blaze, no more the gold Or purple flashes from the opening fold; No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride Of changing hues; all, all, is crimson-dyed. They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread That measures out the tombing of the dead; The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls In heavy thunders to the answering poles;

But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies,
At breathless intervals, along the skies,
As if some viewless sentinel were there
Whose challenge peals at midnight through the air.
Each sullen steed goes on, nor heeds its roar,
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more;
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head,
And slowly wheeling, with a cautious tread,
Shuns, as in reverence, the mighty dead;
Or, rearing suddenly, with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies, he passes by;
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh, and gazes round,
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This, while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughter'd men, and never drop a tear;
And only, when he meets a comrade there,
Stretch'd calmly out, with brow and bosom bare,
And stiffen'd hand uplifted in the air—
With lip still curl'd, and open, glassy eye,
Fix'd on the pageant that is passing by-
And only then-in decency will ride

Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride.

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone

In a near and unchangeable tone-
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing-and flown!
Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light,

Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold

On the clouds that unfold,

Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides, When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides,

Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne! Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,

That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play, When the evening is near, and the sun is away,

Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are play'd—
By spirits, unseen, and unknown,
But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes, alone,

In one sweet dreamy tone,
Are ever blown,

For ever and for ever.
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round
In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls,
And rival minstrels meet.

NIGHT.

"Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night
Bows down superbly from her utmost height,
Stretches her starless plumes across the world,
And all the banners of the wind are furl'd.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom,
As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour

When life is helpless, and the dead have power;
When solitudes are peopled; when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course, and all the hills
Are bright with armour; when the starry vests,
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
Of moon-light sentinels are sparkling round,
And all the air is one rich floating sound;
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts, and every bird
That loves the leafy wood and blooming bower
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower;
When every lovely, every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandal'd pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains, murmuring as they go;
When watery tunes are richest, and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around,
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground-
Sweet, drowsy, distant music! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.

It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why; when we would gladly sleep
Our last, last sleep, and feel no touch of fear,
Unconscious where we are, or what is near,
Til we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gather'd in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky;
That hour of gratitude, of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air;
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal;
And then, as if our sins were all forgiven,
And all our tears were wiped, and we in heaven!

ONTARIO.

No sound is on the ear, no boatman's oar Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore; But all is listening, as it were to hear Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere And calling on the desert to express Its sense of Silence in her loveliness. What holy dreaming comes in nights like these, When, like yon wave, unruffled by a breeze, The mirrors of the memory all are spread And fanning pinions sail around your head; When all that man may love, alive or dead, Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things, And nestle on his heart with their young wings, And all perchance may come, that he may fear, And mutter doubtful curses in his ear; Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain With indistinct forebodings, dim, and vain....

The moon goes lightly up her thronging way,
And shadowy things are brightening into day;
And cliff and shrub and bank and tree and stone
Now move upon the eye, and now are gone.
A dazzling tapestry is hung around,

A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground;
The willows glitter in the passing beam
And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream;
And all the full rich foliage of the shore
Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er,
And dances at the faintest breath of night,
And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light!....
This dark cool wave is bluer than the deep,
Where sailors, children of the tempest, sleep;
And dropp'd with lights as pure, as still, as those
The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose,
Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray,
That Ocean's flashing surges send astray....

This is the mirror of dim Solitude,

On which unholy things may ne'er intrude;
That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear,
Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear.
Ontario's deeps are spread to multiply
But sunshine, stars, the moon, and clear-blue sky.
No pirate barque was ever seen to ride,
With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide;
Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang
With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang
Their clear, exulting, bold, triumphant strain,
Till all the mountain echoes laugh'd again;
Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply,
And heaven's blue dome ring out the sprightly
melody.

TREES.

THE heave, the wave and bend

Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their songs of praise, while Ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark-
While mossy garlands, full and rich and dark,
Creep slowly round them! Monarchs of the wood,
Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood-
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the wing'd idolaters of Day-
Who, mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god, hand to hand,
Then drop like weary pyramids away,
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!

INVASION OF THE SETTLER.

WHERE now fresh streamlets answer to the hues

Of passing seraph-wings; and fiery dews
Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes,
Like sprinkled flame; and all the green-wood shakes
With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung
Upon her favourite tresses, while they swung
And wanton'd in the wind-henceforth will be
No lighted dimness, such as you see,

In yonder faint, mysterious scenery,
Where all the woods keep festival, and seem,
Beneath the midnight sky, and mellow beam
Of yonder breathing light, as if they were
Branches and leaves of unimbodied air.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

[Born, 1794.]

Mr. BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. At a very early age he gave indications of superior genius, and his father, an eminent physician, distinguished for erudition and taste as well as for extensive and thorough knowledge of science, watched with deep interest the development of his faculties under the most careful and judicious instruction. At ten years of age he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton, and during the vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote "The Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. Tasso when nine years of age wrote some lines to his mother which have been praised, CowLEY at ten finished his "Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe," POPE when twelve his Ode to Solitude," and "the wondrous boy CHATTERTON," at the same age, some verses entitled "A Hymn for Christmas Day;" but none of these pieces are superior to that which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire was directed against President JEFFERSox and his party, and has recently been quoted to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the last forty years having furnished no ground, it may be supposed, for such an accusation. The description of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author:

[ocr errors]

"E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame; Lift ner black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride. She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound, A motley throng, obedient, flock around; A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings, And darkness perches on all her dragon wings! "Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell! But vain the wish, for, hark! the murmuring meed Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed; Enter, and view the thronging concourse there, Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare; While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands; To adulation tunes his servile throat, And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." Some of the democrats affected to believe that Master BRYANT was older than was confessed, or that another person had written "The Embargo;" but the book was eagerly read, and in a few months a second edition appeared, with some additional pieces. To this was prefixed the following advertisement:

"A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen years could have been the author of this poemin justice to his merits the friends of the writer feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. They would premise, that they do not come uncalled before the public to bear this testimony. They would prefer that he should be judged by his works, without favour or affection. As the doubt has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of justice to remove it, after which they leave him a candidate for favour in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure the public that Mr. BRYANT, the author, is a native of Cummington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of fourteen years. These facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as by several of his friends, who give this notice; and if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the printer is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence."

In the sixteenth year of his age, BRYANT entered an advanced class of Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attainments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from the faculty an honourable discharge, for the purpose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married.

When but little more than eighteen years of age he had written his noble poem of "Thanatopsis," which was published in the North American Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, "The Ages," in which, from a survey of the past eras of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of SPENSER, and in its versification is not inferior to "The Faerie Queene." "To a Waterfowl," " Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly as great merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington.

Having passed ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the uncongenial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, in 1825, he removed to the city of New York, and

*See note on page 92.

[ocr errors]

with a friend, established "The New York Review and Atheneum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems, and in The Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the memory of his father, who died in that year. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Evening Post," one of the oldest and most influential political and commercial gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with Mr. VERPLANCK and Mr. SANDs in the production of "The Talisman," an annual; and he wrote two or three of the "Tales of Glauber Spa," to which, besides himself, Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paulding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. An intimate friendship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VERPLANCK in editing his works.

In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary studies, and to the education of his children. He travelled through France, Germany, and Italy, and resided several months in each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEGGETT, compelled him to return hastily in the early part of 1836. The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1844 he revisited Europe. He resides still in the city of New York, and continues to devote the chief part of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, which has been for many years the leading journal of the democratic party.

[ocr errors]

In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. BayANT had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching WASHINGTON IRVING, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published The Fountain and other Poems;" in 1814 «The White-Footed Deer and other Poems," and in 1846 a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, has been published in Philadelphia by Carey & Hart. No volume has issued from the American press, of which the country should be more proud. We may send it abroad as a representative of our literature, and as a proof of our proficiency in the arts.

The many and high excellencies of Mr. BRYANT have been almost universally recognised. With men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. His works abound with passages of profound reflection which the philosopher meditates in his closet, and with others of such simple beauty and, obvious intention as please the most illiterate. In his pages are illustrated all the common definitions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he has a perfect mastery. Very few equal him in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows

with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His manner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which distinguishes the productions of an author writing from his own observations of life and nature rather than from books.

Mr. BRYANT is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. He "conforms his life to the beautiful order of God's works." In the meditation of nature he has learned high lessous of philosophy and religion. With no other poet does the subject spring so naturally from the object; the moral, the sentiment, from the contemplation of the things about him. There is nothing forced in his inductions. By a genuine carnestness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and prepares him to anticipate his thought. By an imperceptible influence he carries him from the beginning to the end of a poem, and leaves him infused with the very spirit in which it is conceived.

In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beautiful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which COLE puts on the canvas.

It has been complained that there is very little sentiment, very little of the blending of passion with philosophy, in BRYANT's poetry; that his antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, but in many of his poems are passages of touching pathos, and his interest in his race appears, contrary to the general experience, to increase with his age.

It has been denied by some persons, reasoning from our descent, education, language, and manners, identifying us so closely with another people, that we can have a distinctive national literature. But there are very few of BRYANT's poems that could have been written in any country but our own. They breathe the very spirit of our young and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only in our own land, than he does the elevating influences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed by none but the citizens of this republic. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or France.

Mr. BRYANT is still in the meridian of his life; among the most recent of his productions are some of the finest he has written; and we may look with confidence to an increase of the bases of his high reputation, second now to that of no contem porary who writes in our language.

« PreviousContinue »